


The One Who Loved Shadows

by SerenaMcKeenzo



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gratuitous Threesomes, Human!Pitch, M/M, Multi, OT3, Smut, minor OCs - Freeform, stalker!Jack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1522640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenaMcKeenzo/pseuds/SerenaMcKeenzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pitch is a well-known horror writer, living in the quiet seaside town of Bournemouth. But his peculiar ability to scare and cause nightmares through his books catches the attention of a curious spirit and his companion, and soon enough it's not just his books that are filled with the supernatural.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That's my cue

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking of writing a blackice mermaid!AU but Jack refused to be separated from the sky. So this happened.
> 
> I have a few ideas for this story bouncing around but I'm still debating how it should go exactly... This has the potential of turning into epic proportions.

Most of the students were nodding off, Pitch noticed quietly, sitting in one of the larger lecture theatres at the university. The class was on intertextuality and you’d expect that English students would be interested in something like that – the professor brought up some fascinating points, even if her lecturing style has left something to be desired.

Pitch glanced at the clock, soon it was his turn to give his guest talk in the second half of the lecture. He knew some of the students recognised him; the not-so-subtle widening of eyes and excited chatter when the kids spotted him was a dead giveaway. Though he suspected they’d be disappointed soon enough. The professor wanted him to talk about negotiating movie adaptations with the core texts instead of his customary lecture on the horror genre in general, something he was grateful for. Being a horror novelist, his work got too easily labelled as cheap thrills, chipping away at his credibility as a writer.

“… Kozmotis Pichiner!”

That’s his cue.

Pitch slipped out of his seat, taking the laser pointer from the lecturer with a small thanks and faced his audience.

“Good afternoon. I’m Kozmotis Pitchiner and some of you may be familiar with my work…” he started, lazily dragging his gaze over the rows of students. Most of them seemed to have perked up when he was introduced; one kid in the back was actually leaning forwards so heavily, his papers got almost pushed off his desk, his eyes filled with interest.

Lifting his haze back to the projector, Pitch swung into his topic, pleased that he managed to hold the attention of the students better than the professor before him could. Some of them even caught on to his sarcastic humour, chuckling occasionally. The over-enthusiastic kid in the back in particular seemed to enjoy himself a lot, grinning almost all the way through. Pitch scoffed inwardly, the kid’s interest was hardly surprising. Bleached-white hair, metal piercings in his ear… he was one of those punks who have taken to his books especially well. The horror genre seemed to suit them, even though Pitch has never had this particular target audience in mind.

Oh well. As long as he got readers and deals with publishers, Pitch couldn’t care less who his audience was.

***

The window was open.

Pitch stared angrily at the opening – he’s come home to a thoroughly chilled apartment even though he could have sworn he didn’t leave any windows open when he left in the morning. He swept his gaze around his living room; nothing seemed out of place and it wasn’t like someone would break into his sixth floor flat.

Sighing, he resigned himself to the fact that it must have slipped his mind, and went over to close the offending window before slipping on a jumper to combat the chill. He must have been more stressed over his new novel than he thought. He kept slipping into his old clichés, failing to come up with something ‘new and original’ as his publisher wanted him too.

_A rest would do me good._ He mused as he grabbed a beer from the fridge, before settling down in front of his laptop to turn his brain off with mindless internet drivel.

***

The following days were peppered with strange incidents. Windows forgotten open. Heating tuned off in mornings. Unseasonable frost on windowsills. Pitch would have been more worried for his mental health were he not so busy with university commitments already. He was in a rush that morning, getting his notes ready for the last seminar he was holding as a follow-up to his lecture earlier and the creative writing class he was teaching as an optional module that day.

Grabbing his folder and shoving it into his bag, Pitch checked that all his windows were all closed before setting of for the university. Pulling the front door of his apartment building shut behind him, he failed to notice the small icicles hanging above the entrance silently, despite the mild weather of the seaside.

The seminar went on without a hitch – unsurprisingly, the majority of his students has seen the film adaptation of his book series, _Graveyard Silence._  Urging them to take a theoretical point of view and consider issues with intertextuality instead of comparing comic books to their film adaptations was a bit more challenging.

Thus Pitch was more than relieved when after two hours the youngsters scattered away from the seminar room, leaving Pitch alone. He much preferred giving lectures to having to interact with a bunch of overexcited teens, he mused as he headed to his next class. As usual, he got to the small lecture theatre with only a handful of minutes to spare so he could avoid any unnecessary conversation with his class attendees as loaded up his slides.

When he straightened up and faced his audience, the room quickly quietened down – unlike the freshmen from the seminar, the third-years knew him well enough to not disturb his class.  Launching into his lecture on writing suspense and scares, he looked over the young faces, spotting the ones daydreaming and staring at them just a moment too long. The little shiver that run through them as a result was always a delight to watch. Changing his slide, Pitch lifted his gaze from the students and that’s when a shock of white hair caught his attention. The punk boy from his guest lecture was sitting near the back of the theatre, looking inconspicuous despite his flashy outfit and piercings.

Pitch though, eyeing the now almost familiar enthusiastic expression on the boy’s face. _What is a first-year doing in this class?_

Noticing his gaze, the white-haired boy smiled widely at him, the cheerful look completely at odds with his punkish appearance. There was something unnerving about the boy and Pitch had to force down the uncharacteristic shiver creeping up his spine. Tearing his eyes away, he returned his focus to the lecture, stubbornly ignoring the punk for the rest of his class.

Only, said punk had other ideas.

Pitch was closing down the PowerPoint and signing out of his university account when he felt a slight chill at his side. Glancing up, he saw the white-haired boy fidgeting there, grinning when he caught Pitch’s eyes.

“Um, hello” he started, body language emanating nervousness. “I really liked your lecture. Wow, I’d never have thought written words can pack such a punch! Your books are really scary,” the boy rambled on, shifting his weight from one leg to another.

“Thank you” Pitch replied evenly. He didn’t feel like conversing at all.

“But, I was wondering,” the boy continued, unaffected by Pitch’s disinterest. “Why do you always write the monsters as evil?”

Pitch paused at that, unconsciously straightening up from where he was leaning over the computer. _What a strange question._ “How else would I write them? I’m a horror novelist.”

“Yeah, I know,” the boy answered quickly. “But… How do you know all of them are like that? Just because they’re supernatural…. They don’t have to be evil, y’know?”

The kid looked up at the older man with such an eager expression that it threw Pitch off-guard; no-one has questioned his choice to portray his monsters as evil before, after all. Glancing to the side to mull over his answer, Pitch noticed absently that all of his students have left already.

“I never thought of exploring the motivations of my antagonists” he replied, eyes still on the empty room. “I write horror stories after all. People tend to be more afraid of the irrational, things they can’t reason with.” Pitch said, turning back to face his keen student. “People want thrills, not explanations.”

“But-“ the boy said, his face set in a stubborn expression before he cut himself off, quickly glancing to the side. Following his gaze, Pitch caught a faint golden glint but his attention was quickly taken again when the kid started rambling.

“Ah, very sorry, seems like I have to go. It was great speaking with you, should totally do that again, see you around?” he said, before rushing off with a smile and a wave.

Pitch stared after him for a while, the boy’s eccentricity has left him slightly winded. Shaking off the peculiar feeling, he gathered up his things and headed home, a small smile playing at his lips.

***

“Why did you do that?” Jack asked, glaring accusingly at his smaller companion. “I’ve finally got him talking to me!”

The golden spirit remained unaffected, his sand forming a series of images above his head. Jack scowled indignantly at the picture of binoculars.

“I’m not stalking him!” At the answering flurry of images, he sighed exasperatedly, “Sandy!”

He was rewarded with even more glaring and crossed arms. Jack huffed and slipped off his corporeal appearance – his punkish outfit giving way to the soft blue material of his hoodie and the tight, frosted pants he wore in his spirit form.

“You act like you’re not interested yourself,” he said, something that looked dangerously like a pout pulling his lips tight. “He can create nightmares like no human should! Don’t deny how much that intrigues you.”

Sandy sighed soundlessly, his whole body relaxing with the motion. That… Kozmotis was a truly peculiar one. He signed as much to Jack.

“His books are way too creepy.” The frost spirit laughed, relieved that the tension has broken between them. “Yet people still read them, and love them! Even when they have nightmares and flinch away from the dark,” he said as he started walking towards the window in the hallway. Nudging it open, he slipped out onto the wind, his quiet companion following close behind.

“Do you think he’s been touched by a spirit?”

Sandy looked thoughtful at that. He settled onto his golden cloud, watching Jack flitting around him before answering.

_Don’t know any such spirits. Can’t see signs._

“Maybe he’s just that talented.” Jack said with a smile that to Sandy looked way too dreamy.

***

The small fire the kids huddled around on the beach was a bright spot against the dark backdrop of the sea. Pitch watched it quietly as he relaxed against the balcony railing, a tumbler of scotch cradled in his hand. The darkness has always soothed him, shadows enveloping his body in a caring embrace and dulling his senses from the harsh reality of the outside world.

He watched with mild interest the twitching shadows the fire threw across the sand, easily lost in their exotic dance. People were always so afraid of the dark and even though Pitch knew very well how to play on that fear, he never quite experienced it. Yet, he understood the adrenaline rush his stories caused, the fear of the unknown that would make people shy away from shaded corners.

Sighing, he took a sip of his scotch and lifted his eyes to the night sky, just catching a shooting star fly across the dotted blackness.

_Make a wish, huh?_ Pitch smiled softly and emptied his tumbler. A few moments later, he headed back into the warmth of his bedroom, flipping on the lights and getting ready for bed.

He didn’t make a wish.

Yet soon after the bedroom light went out, a window slowly swayed open and a white-haired head poked inside. Seeing the room’s occupant asleep, Jack hopped onto the windowsill and settled in, disregarding Sandy’s advice not to follow the human around, and watched Pitch’s chest rise and fall well into the night.


	2. Not like last time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I'm slowly getting back the hang of fic-writing so bare with the occasional hitches.... any constructive feedback is much appreciated of course! But good news, I'm starting to see how this will go! (Kind of)
> 
> A quick note the spirits in this, as it will become clearer throughout this story, are not like they’re in ROTG! Their jobs, birth, and behaviour are all slightly tweaked.

A gentle breeze crawled along Pitch’s nape, gradually nudging him into wakefulness. He groaned softly, pulling the blankets tighter around himself to fight off the shivers creeping up his body. But sleep continued to elude him as he became more and more aware of the chilling temperature of the room. Sighing, Pitch threw back the blankets and sat up swiftly, chiding himself for leaving a window open again.

He stopped short just before his feet touched the carpeted floor.

Pitch closed his eyes and took a deep breath before chancing another look at his room. Yes, that was definitely frost. Frost covering the bedroom floor and the majority of the wall around the open window, despite the lack of sub-zero temperatures at this time of year in Bournemouth.

Gathering his bearings, he carefully picked his way through the frozen carpet to the window, shutting it gingerly. This was definitely disconcerting.

***

Jack stretched out in the air and spun around in the playful embrace of the winds, cheerful and energised from his trip to the icy mountains of Scotland. Catching sight of the Bournemouth Pier, he twisted away from their clutches, waving goodbye as he plummeted into the cold water below. Uncaring of the wetness seeping through his clothes or the lack of oxygen he swam towards the pillars of the pier, the underwater currents proving to be a bit more difficult to navigate than the winds. A small dwelling was nestled on the bottom of the sea, among the rocks and wooden pillars, its metallic edges glinting in the light that filtered through from the surface. Jack dropped onto the dome-like structure of his home and smiled as he spotted his roommate through the glass walls.

Sandy was settling into the low-backed couch of their shared living space, fully planning on catching a few winks of sleeps before his nature called him away again. He could feel the sweet tendrils of sleep encroaching on him when the distinct sound of someone phasing through the entrance portal rang through the small adobe.

“Sandy! Didn’t think you’d be in,” Jack greeted as he flittered around the room, water still dripping from his clothes.

“I feel great!” he continued, flopping down onto the couch and causing the other spirit to bounce up. The answering glare was ignored.  “The cold front up north brought some really awesome snowstorms! Some of the lakes even froze over and I’ve managed to entice a couple of kids into skating with me. It was pretty cool,” Jack finished with a satisfied chuckle.

Sandy glanced at the calendar hanging on a nearby wall – human timekeeping still didn’t come naturally to him – and noted that it was early December. Sand pictures of a broken twig, snowflakes, and an ice skate enveloped by broken shards chased each other over his head and he looked questioningly at Jack.

The weather spirit laughed out, “Of course I made sure the ice was thick enough. Me of all people would know how dangerous that can be,” he said, nudging a cold foot under Sandy’s body. “A few scraped knees and a handful of colds is all you can blame me for.”

Sandy puffed his cheeks up and pushed the offending limb away before closing his eyes and getting ready to nod off again. He felt the couch dip as Jack stood up but before he could appreciate the silence, a pair of cold and wet arms pulled him against an equally damp chest, the uncomfortable chill chasing away any sleepiness. He flailed around, trying to dislodge the water-soaked appendages but only earned himself a chuckle as Jack tightened his embrace.

“I know the cold doesn’t bother you, Mr I-Know-The-Frozen-Space-Between-The-Stars,” he teased.

Stilling, Sandy let a pout come over his features, an angry image of water droplets forming above his head, conveniently just in front of the wet spirit’s nose.

“Ah, you don’t like my wet clothes,” Jack realised, dropping his arms and pulling away. The dream spirit glanced over his shoulder and saw his companion strip off his hoodie before arms wound around him again and he was pulled back into his previous position.

“Better?”

Well, Jack’s dry chest against him was definitely preferable to the drenched material of his sweater, Sandy had to admit. He could catch some sleep like this too.

“Have you heard from Bunny?” Jack asked, busting Sandy’s newest attempt at dozing off. “He seemed pretty agitated last time I saw him. Though it could’ve been ‘cause I frosted his flowers.”

Sandy glanced up at his companion, noting that he was still thrumming with energy and didn’t look anywhere near settling down.

_Don’t you have something to do?_ He communicated with his sand, burrowing into Jack’s chest, hoping it’d signal to the other his intentions.

“Not really,” Jack hummed resting his chin in the golden spirit’s hair. “I might visit Kozmotis later!”

Sandy could feel through their physical contact how the younger sprite perked up at that, already excited over the prospect of seeing his favourite human. He glanced back to catch Jack’s eyes and his resigned expression was met with a playful grin.

Letting out a long-suffering sigh, Sandy settled back in. He knew a lost battle when he saw one.

***

Pitch sat at an empty booth in the bar, of which at such an early hour there were plenty. He pulled his mobile out just as it lighted up with an incoming text.

_From: NightLight  
On my way, there in 5._

He swiftly typed out a reply then put his phone on the table. He glanced around his surroundings – 1812 was a small, classy-looking cocktail bar with dark red decorations, just off the road that winded by the seaside. Though it was a bit pricey, they had happy hours in the early evenings and truth to be told, Pitch much preferred the place when it was quiet and half empty. Even if cocktails were not his preferred beverage, Kjell has taken a liking to the sweet and colourful concoctions and despite Pitch’s silent disapproval, they kept visiting the place.

Tapping his fingers on the table, Pitch checked his phone again. It was unusual for Kjell to be late, the quiet boy was surprisingly reliable for his age. At times it was hard to believe he was no more than 19.

Pitch started when a fair-haired boy dropped into the seat across him, mumbling a quiet apology. Recognising his friend, he smiled silently at the other’s hassled appearance.

“Calm down, Kjell. I wasn’t waiting for that long.”

“Yeah…. Sorry,” the boy replied, fidgeting slightly.

“It’s fine,” Pitch sighed with a touch of fondness. “What has kept you?”

 “The mother was late from work. I couldn’t leave the children,” he replied in a quiet voice, tension visibly leaving his body.

Pitch nodded in acknowledgment. He knew Kjell was fiercely protective of children, making him an ideal baby-sitter. He also genuinely liked doing it; even though since getting his student loan he didn’t need to, Kjell continued to take baby-sitting jobs alongside his university course.

“Do you know what you’re getting?” Pitch asked, indicating the drinks list in front of them.

Kjell’s eyes lighted up at that and he grabbed the menu, perusing the choices with childish glee, as if he didn’t know the full list by heart already.

“Apfel Strudel,” he decided after a few thoughtful moments. “You?”

“Surprise me.” It wasn’t like he could differentiate between the number of overly sweet and fruity drinks.

Kjell gave a small smile in response and got up to get the first round of their evening. When he returned with a light-coloured icy mix decorated with apples and a red concoction in a martini glass, Pitch gave him an exasperated look.

“Cosmopolitan,” the younger explained, handing Pitch his red-coloured drink. “Suits you.”

Pitch grunted at that but accepted his glass nevertheless.

“So, what’s new with you?” the older of the two asked. Kjell was prone to quiet spells so Pitch often had to take the lead in their conversations.

“Not much,” the boy replied, sipping on his cocktail. “I’m going home for the holidays soon.”

“Norway? Have you got your tickets already?”

“Yeah. For the 19th.”

A comfortable silence born of years of friendship settled on the pair as they sipped their drinks. Pitch was thinking how the fruity mixture wasn’t actually that bad when the quiet boy spoke up.

“Any new sightings?”

Pitch smiled at that. Kjell has taken to calling his encounters with the punk boy as sightings as the kid seemed impossible to pin down and appeared erratically at best and at the most unpredictable moments.

“Not recently,” he said. “I’ve checked the student records at the university though. I couldn’t match him to any of the ID pictures from my class registers.”

“Aren’t you… worried?” Kjell asked, his eyes searching his friend’s face.

“Worried? Why would I be?”

“You have a stalker,” the boy replied, looking into his companion’s amber eyes.

Pitch paused at that abruptly, his martini glass stopping halfway to his mouth. He haven’t thought of the white-haired kid that way. True, he often lingered around in the back of classrooms or in the corner of the coffee shop Pitch frequented – but nothing that alarming. And especially with what was going on with the weird frost and open windows,  something he haven’t even told Kjell about, Pitch felt he was already paranoid and could easily be overreacting.

Kjell continued inspecting his features without a word as Pitch slowly placed his glass back on the table. A couple of girls talking in raised voices walked by their booth heading for the bar, and at their departure the silence that settled around them seemed just that more stifling.

“He seems harmless,” Pitch broke the quiet in a measured tone. “Just a punk fascinated by my books. He’ll run out of steam soon enough.”

“Not like last time?”

Pitch raised an eyebrow at that. Though his tone was soft, Kjell was giving him a pointed look that was sharper than any words could be.

“This won’t be like last time.”

Kjell held his eyes for a moment longer before turning away with a soft sigh, his blond hair obstructing his face from view. Pitch looked into his now-empty glass, the memories of that event swirling around in the back of his mind.

“Pitch.”

The quiet voice cut through his encroaching thoughts and he lifted his gaze to meet the other’s pale eyes.

“Just promise me that… you’ll tell me. If it gets worse,” Kjell said, his fingers playing with his straw absently.

“Kjell-” Pitch started but was stopped short when the blonde’s eyes hardened. Sighing, he relented, “I will. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I know,” Kjell smiled, a soft look touching his eyes.

Pitch felt the corner of his lips twitch up in answer. He quickly slipped out of their booth, glancing over his shoulder on the way to the bar.

“Your usual? The one with the crushed raspberries?”

Attention diverted to his beloved fruity beverages, the young boy perked up and gave a quick nod, “Clover Club.”

Pitch tipped his head in acknowledgement and set off to the bar, thinking of getting himself another of that red cocktail. It was still a few rounds too early, but he knew that soon enough he would give in to Kjell and find himself with one of the more sugary concoctions.

***

At times like this, Pitch was immensely grateful that he lived so close to the town centre. It only took a short walk along the beach to get to his apartment building from 1812, the dark swaying of the sea soothing the buzz from the alcohol.

Letting himself into his flat was a bit more of a challenge, even if Pitch would never admit it. Once in, he dropped his keys on the table by the door and headed straight for the balcony opening from his bedroom, craving the cool breeze and the comforting darkness outside.

When he pushed the glass doors open however, Pitch halted suddenly, staring at the apparition before him.

Two figures were sitting on the railing. Two figures, one of which was clearly not human with his glowing golden skin and the other…

The other was the punk boy.

_My stalker,_ he thought with alarm, his mental voice sounding curiously like Kjell. Pitch had the fleeting thought that the younger was right to be suspicious before he straightened his posture; with his black jeans and sweater blending into the surrounding darkness and sharp amber glare, he drew a truly intimidating figure.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Pitch asked, his voice deep and threatening, immediately drawing the attention of the trespassers.

“What the-“ the young boy started, tripping over his words as his eyes widened. Pitch noted absently that he wasn’t wearing his metal studs this time and his outfit was much more reserved, tight pants and a blue hoodie cradling his thin frame. The boy hopped of the railing, the blunt end of what looked like a shepherd’s crook tapping softly against the tiles – Pitch cast a wary glance at the potential weapon. The dim shadows stretching on the walls behind him seemed to shudder in response; the darkness of the unlit bedroom loomed in the background. The golden apparition followed his partner cautiously, floating a foot or so above the ground.

“What _are_ you?” Pitch asked, looking at the inhuman figure warily, wishing he could step back into the comforting shades of his bedroom but refusing to back down.  

A surprised look crossed the golden face and the spirit indicated at himself with his small hands. The blue-clad child whipped his head between the two of them, brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the situation. Settling on the dark shape blocking the entrance to the balcony he exclaimed incredulously, “You can see us!”

Raising an eyebrow, Pitch addressed the floating man. “Of course I can. And I don’t appreciate you breaking into my home.”

The smaller spirit broke into a flurry of movement at that, waving his hands as the softly glowing sand that seemingly made up his body swirled around above his head, forming small symbols and images in fast succession. The human-looking boy took a careful step forwards, reaching out to Pitch with his free hand.

“Wait, no... It’s not what it looks like, we’re…. erm…” He glanced at his companion uncertainly. “Well, you’re not really supposed to see us.”

“Really,” Pitch said dangerously, the shadows around him appearing even darker than before.

“Yeah, you see, we’re not quite… human?” the boy muttered, sharing a quick look with the other spirit.

Pitch stared at them impassively, causing the boy to fidget under his gaze. The golden man offered a comforting smile and attempted to fly over to the human when Pitch snapped. The past days have been crazy enough and now he was having some weird hallucinations to top it off; with a growl he grabbed to boy’s arm and started dragging him back into the flat, fully intending to shove him through the front door.

“You have no business being here. If I see you again I’ll call the police.”

“No, wait!” the boy yelled, struggling against his grip; the oppressing darkness of the bedroom spent unpleasant chills up his spine. “Kozmotis, stop! Listen to us-“

“I’ve heard enough,” he snarled, tightening his hold and nearly pulling the smaller creature off his feet.

A golden blur dashed in front of him and he had to stop for a moment as the weird, inhuman visitor waved in his face, sand twisting into confusing shapes between them. Frowning, Pitch flung his arm out, pushing the small spirit out of the way and continuing his trek to the front door.

“No!” the boy cried, renewing his effort to break free. “Kozmotis, listen! Let me go, I can explain! We’re harmless, you shouldn’t even see us…”

But his pleas went unheard. Jack was considering wedging his feet against the doorframe as Pitch’s hand wrapped around the doorknob but his plans were cut short when a ball of gold hit the tall man in the face, exploding into soft dust around him. The effect was almost instantaneous; the grip around the boy’s arm loosened then slipped off as Pitch collapsed to the floor, forced into a deep sleep.

The sudden silence echoed in the room; somehow even the darkness felt less overwhelming. Taking a few calming breaths, Jack looked over at his companion, meeting his apprehensive eyes.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

***

The pleasant embrace of a dreamless sleep receded gently as Pitch became aware of lying flat on his stomach, on top of his covers. The uncomfortable scrape of his jeans against his skin told him that he had managed to fall asleep still dressed – he didn’t remember getting that drunk with Kjell the night before.

Rolling over, he opened his eyes to the bright early winter sunlight, grateful for his lack of headache. Pitch sat up and stretched, mentally going over his plans for the day, gaze slipping to his laptop on the desk in the corner – he needed to get down on his writing today. He stopped abruptly however, when his eyes fell upon two figures awkwardly loitering around his room.

“You’re awake!” the white-haired boy exclaimed when their eyes met and he quickly hopped onto the bed besides Pitch. “Don’t freak out!” he said quickly, pointing his crooked staff at the older figure’s chest seriously.

Pushing the cold wood away, Pitch frowned. “Why are you still here, boy?”

“I didn’t get a chance to explain properly last night – you see, we didn’t mean to trespass.” He turned to the gold spirit in confirmation. “We’re what you’d call spirits. Most humans can’t see us, hell, they don’t even know we exist! So yeah, we didn’t think you’d catch us,” he finished with a grin.

“That doesn’t excuse the fact that you broke in,” Pitch replied in a flat voice. The light of the day didn’t make the situation seem any less surrealistic.

“Well, technically, we were only on the balcony. Not in the flat,” the boy returned. “I’m Jack Frost, by the way.”

Thinking it wouldn’t hurt to humour the boy, Pitch extended his arm and shook his hand. “A pleasure, Jack. Though I’d rather if you got out of my flat, sooner the better.”

Before Jack could react, a golden mass of swirls flopped onto the bed between them, the small spirit extending his hand in greeting as well.

Pitch eyed the appendage cautiously then glanced at the sand formation above the creature’s head. “Sandy,” he read aloud and at the spirit’s enthusiastic nod, he sighed and shook his hand as well. “I’m-“

“Kozmotis, I know,” Jack smiled brightly. Sandy slapped his palm against his forehead in exasperation, but the gesture went unnoticed by the young boy.

“Pitch,” the man corrected automatically. “No one calls me Kozmotis.”

“Ah,” Jack muttered, his sheepish expression eliciting a silent chuckle from Sandy. Glancing over, the frost spirit could see a series of sand images flicking over one another and once their meaning registered, Jack spluttered, a faint blue blush forming on his cheeks.

“I’m not a bad stalker!” Catching Pitch’s stern glare, he quickly added, “or any kind of stalker, for that matter.”

“Really, now.”

Both spirits looked up when Pitch swept from the bed and they followed him into the living room. Pitch headed for the front door and swung it open, indicating at it with a sharp gesture.

“Get out.”

“But Koz- I mean Pitch! We just wanted to-“

“Enough,” Pitch cut Jack’s hurried explanations off. “I don’t care if you’re spirits or ghost or any kind of supernatural creatures. I want you out of my flat.” Yet neither of his unwelcome guests moved, seemingly frozen to the spot.

“Now!” he growled, a faint tremor rushing through the morning shades of the flat. Catching themselves, the spirits quickly scuttered off and Pitch slammed the door shut before they could get one more word in.

He stalked back to his computer and slumped down in front of it. There was a lot to wrap his head around and he didn’t even know where he should start from. The boy turning up like that in his home brought back unpleasant memories he’d rather bury forever. He had a very committed fan following, he knew that, and his agent was good at handling the enthusiastic crowds so he didn’t have to bother too much with them. Especially since that… incident, he didn’t have much contact with his fans outside of book signings but this boy has still managed to pin him down. Pitch debated texting Kjell about this new development, slipping his phone from his pocket. He stared at the blank screen for a handful of minutes, then he dropped the device on the desk with a sigh. What was he going to say? That the kid appeared on his balcony with some weird sand-spirit and oh, by the way, looks like he’s haunted by the supernatural?He shuddered at the thought. He never believed in the paranormal even though his books were filled with it. He wasn’t sure he believed now, the experience from the morning and the night before still feeling unreal, as if it all was just a very vivid dream. He knew better of course.

His thoughts wandered back to his first conversation with the boy – Jack, he said his name was. He had asked why he always wrote evil spirits; clearly, there were a number of benevolent souls out there, with slight stalkerish tendencies. Pitch frowned at his own sarcasm. He should be more freaked out about all of this yet he didn’t feel as riled up as the situation warranted. He suspected it was only a question of time though.

He glanced at his powered off laptop – an idea was forming in his head, a story about a spirit struggling to get in touch with the human world, unintentionally scaring and harming the people around it… Instead of inherent evil, the narrative could be driven by misunderstandings and the questioning of perceptions - yes, he could work that into his current outline, spin it in a way that would definitely be different from his previous works.

Mind whirling with ideas, Pitch quickly turned on his laptop and launched himself into his work, all thought of pesky spirits and juvenile stalkers forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Sandy’s and Jack’s place… it’ll become clear later how and why they live there. For now suffice to say, it was Jack’s fault.
> 
> Also, writing Nightlight’s character was a bit of a challenge as I haven’t read the books, so any helpful advice on his characterisation would be welcome!
> 
> (Hmmm, I've realised I've set the story in December... that means Christmas will be a thing. Oops.)


End file.
